


songs without words

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28484211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Songstress Poster: A poster promoting Manuela, the “Miracle Songstress.” It probably belongs to someone who looks up to her.Dorothea follows, her feet dragging as her mind wanders to the months and years ahead. She’d never thought Manuela could ever disappear—as tempestuous as the sea, but as steady as it too. All the hope in the world has dried up, and Dorothea’s left alone to trudge through the cracked sand on her own.~~Written forLost & Found Zine.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Manuela Casagranda
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	songs without words

**Author's Note:**

> It was a joy to write about Dorothea for this zine! Please check out leftover sales and the other works in this project.

_Enbarr, Red Wolf Moon, 1173_

The show ends in thunderous applause, cries of _“Brava! Brava!”_ ringing through the hall. The cheers for Manuela are deafening, and they thunder in time with the pounding of Dorothea’s heart and the tears threatening to pour from her eyes. Manuela is a sun on the stage burning her presence into every mind, washing out the other performers’ faded starlight—she’s a tidal wave of romantic energy, the goddess’s grace come to earth, the Blue Sea Star twinkling through the night.

A supernova burning its brightest the moment before it disappears.

Manuela is leaving the opera in two months time. The ground beneath Dorothea’s feet shook and crumbled as she stood among the company and listened to the announcement.

Under the spotlight, Manuela bows and bows to the crowd, throwing kisses and chuckling as roses land in droves at her feet, basking in the adoration. Dorothea watches from the wings. Her hands shake as she clutches at the curtain. She can almost see herself up there too, singing next to Manuela, a duet between them as they harmonize on life and love. A ridiculous dream—one so close, one so out of reach.

Dorothea had been almost ready for her debut onto center stage, too.

The lights in the opera house rise and the curtain falls. Dorothea lets out a quiet breath and backs away to let the performers pass, nodding to their murmured greetings as they go by. Manuela smiles warmly as she spots her, her face aglow with the rush of an opera well-sung, and she vanishes into the dressing rooms.

Dorothea follows, her feet dragging as her mind wanders to the months and years ahead. She’d never thought Manuela could ever disappear—as tempestuous as the sea, but as steady as it too. All the hope in the world has dried up, and Dorothea’s left alone to trudge through the cracked sand on her own.

Their manager, Heinrich, catches her before she can retreat to her room in the opera’s boarding house. “Dorothea, darling, what do you think? You ready to take on Manuela’s role? Stunning out there, wasn’t she?”

Dorothea lets out a light, practiced laugh. It wavers, and she holds back a wince. She’ll work on it in the mirror. “Oh, I don’t think I could ever match up to Manuela… She really has a voice like no other.” She hums and twists her fingers through a lock of her hair. “But the show must go on! I’ll do whatever we need!”

“Attagirl,” he says, clapping her on the shoulder. “Your allowance should be up in your room, and you’ve got the morning off tomorrow. Let’s run you in the role of Carlotta during rehearsal tomorrow, yeah?”

Dorothea nods, her smile brittle at the edges. No doubt Manuela will be sleeping off tonight’s decadent drinking. The nobles always love to lead the opera’s stars around like pets at a pageant. Dorothea supposes she should consider herself lucky to be free of the obligation for the night.

It is the lot of a songstress to fight her way up in the world, only her voice in hand. Dorothea will do what she must. She’ll sing Carlotta.

Even if she’d rather be Eloise in all her younger, childish awe, a moon reflecting the light of her elder sister, the sweeter, mezzo soprano counterpoint to Carlotta’s flashing, alto storm.

* * *

The weather the following day is perfect—light and airy despite the incoming winter months, the sky bluest cerulean in bold, cloudless glory.

Familiar vendors hawk familiar wares as Dorothea wanders, and she hums Carlotta’s theme under her breath, aimless in her path. As ever, her eyes are drawn to the array of sweet treats laid out by the baker. Steam rises pleasantly off them in lazy wafts.

The baker hails her warmly, his wife bustling busily behind him, and he pulls the tray of peach fritters forward. Dorothea gives him a small laugh and an artful smile. He’s always so ready with her favorites, she can never say no.

A flash of silver is traded for the indulgence, and she continues on her way.

Across the square, an unfamiliar stand propped in front of the opera house catches Dorothea’s eye. The seller gestures loudly at posters emblazoned with the names of the opera’s shows past and present, and he calls for passersby to stop and see his wares. In the man’s arms is a particularly striking scroll: Manuela painted in profile, her hand outstretched toward distant stars, a single tear trailing its way down her cheek as she mourns her lover gone to war. Their current show. Manuela sings an aria about the devastation of time and the pain of waiting; she mourns the faith in others that drips away from her. Every note is perfectly tuned with the melancholy of long-borne loneliness.

Dorothea’s feet lead her to the stall unbidden. The print is poor mimicry of the power of Manuela’s song, but it murmurs in the same eloquent tones. Dorothea’s heart pounds at the sight.

In two months time, Manuela herself will be gone, but the memories of her time in the opera need not be. Dorothea has never caved to the desire for frivolities paid for with her own coin, too careful, too close to ending up back on the streets—but maybe she can let herself have this one thing.

“How much for one?” Dorothea asks, pointing at the poster.

The seller squints at her, beady-eyed, and scoffs. “You don’t have the coin to afford it, girlie. If you want one, go get your daddy to come pay for it.”

A flare of irritation spikes. She’s not a child and she will not be treated as one. She stands straighter, her posture as intimidating as she can make it in her gangly twelve year-old body. “I have my own gold. How much?”

He sizes her up for a long moment. “Twelve silver.”

Dorothea bites her lip. After the pastry, she only has nine with her, and rehearsal begins within the hour, so she doesn’t have time to return with more. “Seven.”

A snort. “You can’t negotiate with me, kid. Take it or leave it.”

“You can’t budge even a little bit?” Dorothea bats her eyelashes and juts her lower lip forward, leaning in with a coy lilt. She’s not as accustomed to it as the other actresses, but she knows how to play a part, even if it leaves a cold sludge in the pit of her stomach. “Please?”

The poster seller sneers, unaffected. “Twelve. Silver. Or you can get out of here.”

Dorothea frowns. She’s been taught well, she’s been taught by the best—so why won’t this man listen to her? The nobles are always so easy, so full of their own self-importance that even the slightest flattery turns out heavily-lined pockets.

“Please? Pretty please?” It sounds weak on her tongue, but there’s little other bargaining power she has at the moment.

“Girlie, I don’t know you. So shoo, get out of here before you get in the way of any real customers.” The man shakes his hand at her, rolling his eyes. He turns away to call out to the square again. His attention isn’t fully gone—his eyes flicker to her and then to his stall every few beats, his gaze laced with mistrust.

Dorothea stands her ground. The street urchin in her whispers to grab a copy and make a break for it—but no, she won’t. She’s not that girl anymore; she’s happy now. Sheltered and cared for. She doesn’t need to steal to get by.

She’s praised and she’s paid for her talents. There’s no one who can deride her now for her poverty, even if the finer clothes she wears these days still can’t cover her humble origins.

“Can’t you do eight? You have so many of these posters.”

The vendor clicks his tongue. “Yeah, and if I sold them all for your price, you know how much money I’d be losing? Go on, get out of here.”

Dorothea shakes with the humiliation of the vendor’s rebuke and she backs away, taking deep breath after deep breath. She will not cry. She cannot afford to cry.

Through the wetness stinging her eyes, she spots another poster tucked behind all the others—out of sight, bearing a crumpled corner and slightly smudged ink. She peers at it, curious, and inhales sharply as she realizes that it’s a copy of Manuela’s poster.

“Excuse me!” she calls, pointing at the half-hidden print. The vendor shoots her an annoyed grimace. “What about this one? The one with the bad corner? Could you give me a discount on that one?”

The vendor lets out a gruff sigh, and pulls it out. “You want this one? Fine, give me your eight silver for it if it’ll get you out of my hair.”

Dorothea frowns. “No, it’s damaged. I’ll only do five. No one else is going to want it anyways.”

“Six.”

“Deal.” Dorothea feels the corners of her lips tugging upward, and she pulls out her purse to count out the pieces. She holds them, clenched in her right hand, and she offers the seller a beatific smile.

He flushes under the weight of her gaze, his eyes dropping down the length of her body, and she holds the smile in place, ignoring the slimy shiver that drops down her spine. He finds himself after a moment and fixes her a look. “Silver first, or you’re not getting anything.”

Dorothea scoffs, but hands over the coins. The vendor rolls the poster lightly and places it on her now-empty palm, and she whisks it away. As she turns on her heel, a small, gleeful hum escapes her lips.

There’s a gruff, begrudging “ _Thanks for your purchase_ ” behind her, and she stops to send the vendor a glowing grin and a small wave, neither of which he deserves.

Dorothea darts away, her steps quick as she makes for her room, poster clutched tight to her chest. It’s not really a piece of Manuela to keep for her own, but it’s as close as she’s going to get.

* * *

_Garreg Mach, Great Tree Moon, 1180_

Dorothea runs her tortoiseshell comb through her hair one more time, smoothing out the last of her tangles and draping her hair gently in front of her shoulders. Her reflection smiles back in the mirror, placid and gracious, perfect after years of practice. If the opera taught her one thing, it’s that how others perceive you is what matters, especially if there’s nothing to know.

She picks up her cap to set it gently against her curls, tilted just so, and adds daubs of perfume to the insides of her wrists.

A burning beat of loneliness strikes her in the familiar motion, so far from her home at the opera house, and her eyes turn automatically to the poster on her wall. For all the art and trinkets she has accumulated over the years, nothing has ever meant quite as much as the first gift she bought for herself.

Carlotta’s plight springs from the scroll, resonating with the emptiness in Dorothea’s own heart—left behind by someone she loves, aching and yearning to feel their light in her life again. Dorothea never quite appreciated Manuela’s mentorship so much as in the days and weeks after her departure.

But Dorothea’s life isn’t an opera. She makes her own choices to chase down what matters—she’s worked and studied and fought her way here, to brighter prospects and the chance to be more than a pretty face.

She traces a crease in the paper and her eyes follow the places the ink has faded over the years. There’s a tear from when she’d pulled it down in a fit of anger after Manuela’s going away party; Manuela leaving her behind had felt like a betrayal, raw and burning even in the dead of winter. No amount of careful varnish and clever masking can ever repair the jagged edge she’d left.

Dorothea drops her hand and drapes her face with her best smile, turning to exit her room. The poster might be old and ragged and worn, but the adoration Dorothea feels for her mentor is not.

Manuela left for Garreg Mach to find her renewal. Now it’s Dorothea’s turn.

She steps into the bright, spring air, mountainous and heady and fresh, unfamiliar but pleasant in its own way. She hums quietly, Carlotta’s theme a familiar melody even after all these years, and she tugs her door shut behind her.

She walks down the lawn toward the greenhouse, toward the sound of loud, bickering voices carrying over the air. A familiar contralto projects in outrage, declaring that Hanneman’s busybody lectures should wait for some other day.

Dorothea lifts her hand and waves.

“Professor Manuela!”

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)


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